


Free To See Other People

by kalima



Category: Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Drunken Karaoke, Drunken comaraderie, Gen, Multi, Shore Leave, Spock will never ever sing karaoke. Ever., Star Trek Discovery adjacent, Strange New Worlds someday, Youthful indiscretion, questionable behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalima/pseuds/kalima
Summary: After T'Pring cancels an arranged meet-up, Lt. Spock is ordered by Number One to take his scheduled shore leave anyway. Hijinks ensue.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	1. The Search for Karaoke

**Author's Note:**

> Lt. Spock's been serving on the Enterprise under Captain Pike for two years.  
> In the original series he hadn't seen Leila Kalomi in six years. I'm taking a few liberties with the timing of that. T'Pring in this story believes she's completely justified in her actions. And I can kind of see her point. Spock will not perform karaoke. 
> 
> I had to break from the serious stuff and dash out something less so. The next two parts are drafts, and I'll post when they look pretty.

“I will be unable to meet with you on Starbase 6 as previously arranged,” T’Pring tells him. No preamble. Direct, as usual. She is not calling from her apartment in Shi’Kahr nor from the home of her family.

Is that a hotel room?

“I scheduled leave,” he says. He’d spent the past two weeks evading questions, ignoring speculation, quashing rumors, and enduring jests from crewmates about why he’d _scheduled_ shore leave on Starbase 6 of all places.

“You are disappointed.” The condescending forbearance she reserves just for him is particularly galling. The fact that she has been rude and inconsiderate does not seem to enter the equation for her.

“Had you informed me sooner than three hours before we were to meet, I could have made other arrangements.”

“You still have three hours in which to make other arrangements.” Her look is bland. He suspects willful incomprehension, as if she has forgotten it was _her_ idea to meet here in the first place.

The Enterprise had been scheduled for maintenance on Starbase 6. T’Pring had relatives on Starbase 6 with whom she could stay. _She’d_ reached out to _him_.

He’d scheduled _leave._

“Your reason for cancelling?”

“The Gene Ontology Convention has accepted my paper.”

Spock is aware of no fewer than eight research papers and proposals T’Pring has submitted to various universities, seminars, and publications. “Which paper?”

“On the sequence polymorphisms of recently discovered invasive phytoplanktons in the Voroth Sea.”

Her enthusiasm flares briefly in his mind like a small but tasteful pyrotechnic display. He has been living amongst openly emotive beings for some time. Certain social responses are habitually ingrained, but he knows better than to offer congratulations to her. She needs no additional reasons to think him too human.

“Though I have not read your research in this area, based on your skills and expertise I am certain the acceptance of your work is well-deserved.”

She inclines her head graciously. In his mind, another sensation, the ephemeral suggestion of preening self-regard. He realizes her pride, her excitement about her paper – this is the first time in five years he’s truly sensed her presence through their bond. They conversed sporadically, but the bond itself had become like the buzz of an insect at his ear, easily brushed away.

A shadow of movement behind her draws his attention. Someone else is in the room – an adult male, judging by bulk.

“Where are you, currently?”

“ _Utopia Planitia_. The convention is being held here. I present my findings four days from now and we arrived early to prepare.”

Four days to prepare seems … excessive. “We?”

“My colleague and I.”

Before he can ask if said colleague is the man in her room, she’s searching his face and mind for hints jealousy or possessiveness. He’s _angry_ not jealous, but that is easy enough to hide from her. He’s had a lot of practice repressing anger over the years.

Seeing no evidence of untoward emotion, T’Pring realigns her spinal column and adjusts her shoulders so that her torso elongates, exposing the supple column of her throat above the high collar of her tunic. A plait of dark hair, interwoven with jade-colored ribbon, falls over her left shoulder and curls into the space between her breasts.

Spock is certain, based on observation, that his human crewmates would find T’Pring physically attractive. She is objectively beautiful by the standards of several humanoid species, with symmetrical features and a lithe, well-proportioned feminine form. Also (and by _Vulcan_ standards, more importantly), she is intelligent, healthy, and from a prominent, respected family. Of course, _his_ family line has its antecedents in the time before the Awakening. His great-grandmother is T’Pau. He is descended from Surak. It is useful to remind himself in moments such as these, that it is she who made a fortunate match and not the other way around.

He and T’Pring had gotten along well when they were younger, sharing overlapping interests and secret ambitions to pursue those interests despite parental decrees to the contrary. She would still be amiable and more consistently communicative if not for that single act she could not pardon – his rejection of admission to the VSA to join Starfleet. A decision not only reckless and emotionally motivated in her view, but also a significant moral failing in one with whom she was expected to build a future.

He thought her suggestion they meet and spend companionable time together meant they were finally moving past it, but her next statement belies that possibility.

“Spock. It has been brought to my attention that your matroclinous inheritance might make it difficult for you to refrain from or relinquish engaging in sexual congress during an extended tour of duty.”

For a moment he is too astonished to respond. It is a ridiculous and patently untrue assumption. Aside from the fact that his phenotype is very much the result of paternal inheritance, humans can go decades, an entire _lifetime_ without engaging in sexual congress at all – which is more than can be said of Vulcans.

“I can assure you that is not the case. Your source is misinformed.”

Just off-screen and to her right, the unknown colleague interrupts and T’Pring quickly mutes the sound and turns away. When she engages the audio and turns back to face Spock again, her brows are delicately furrowed, the only sign of the irritation he knows she’s experiencing.

“Nevertheless,” she says, “given the number of years you intend to serve in Starfleet, and given that you have not expressed an interest in completing our marital bond before it becomes physically imperative for you to do so,” – _if it ever does_ is the thing left unsaid – “I am willing to permit you to explore other options for companionship.”

Spock is suddenly reminded of an overheard conversation – Ensign Tooey lamenting her human girlfriend’s desire to “open-up” the relationship as a sign of its ultimate demise.

“Perhaps a small pet. My matroclinous inheritance likes domestic felines.”

“Sarcasm did not serve you well in our youth, Spock, and it is thoroughly wasted on me. I intended no insult to your mother’s race. I merely accept and acknowledge those areas where it might prove challenging for you and offer a solution without acrimony.”

“You are most generous. Can I assume this permission to explore other options extends to you as well?”

“If conditions present themselves.”

“Have they?”

She lowers her gaze, eyelashes casting soft shadows over occipital bones. “Spock. It is likely you will be compelled to come home within six years. You may even choose to return to me before that time.” She raises her eyes again and it is clear she no longer has any expectation of that happening. “Regardless, at some point in the future our lives will be inextricably bound together. We will complete our marital bond as tradition dictates. But it is clear neither of us is ready to do so now. Surely you see how my interim proposal will benefit us both in the long term?”

He tries and fails not to sigh. What a fitting example of situational irony this is.

One hundred and thirty-two days ago on Earth, at the Moon-Viewing garden in Golden Gate Park, he told Leila Kalomi he was incapable of returning her interest in the manner she desired. _Incapable._

He could have told her that he was not _free_ to return her interest, that he was bonded, betrothed, engaged, promised in marriage, affianced, pledged, committed to another person – any of those words or phrases might have lessened the suffering he caused her, might have made him seem an honorable person rather than a cold and dispassionate one. And would have been true. But that would have meant admitting to himself an attraction, a surge of interest, the temptation to reciprocate both her regard and sexual interest; admit his desire, however brief, to betray his Vulcan heritage and his duty to this very woman who is, right now _,_ giving him tacit permission to do just that.

Below the table, where T’Pring cannot see, his fists unclench one finger at a time. By the time his hands lie open in his lap his mind is closed to her. He meets her gaze across the chasm of space with icy equanimity.

“Though I cannot fault your logic overall, this was not a decision mutually arrived at, but one that you endeavored to thrust upon me using fallacious reasoning and false assumptions about my character. It was unworthy of you, and an insult to me.”

“Spock—”

“I am signing off now.”

“Sp—"

Her image dissolves. He takes a moment to process the interaction, then goes to his meditation mat, lights the asenoi and rocks back into the lesh’riq position. He examines his behavior with T’Pring and determines how logic could have improved their interaction. He examines the emotions that arose, and why, before submerging them once more.

He will not interact with T’Pring again unless that most Vulcan of biological imperative’s compels him to do so. And if that biological imperative never occurs, he will consider it the greatest gift his matroclinous inheritance ever gave him.

^^^

Though usually Number One chose to eat alone and let people come to her if they dared, she placed her platter of fries (or chips depending on who was manning the galley), salad greens, and a non-alcoholic beer on the table across from Spock and sat down.

He did not look particularly receptive to the prospect of sharing his table, especially as the mess hall was sparsely occupied due to all the shore leave going on. He wouldn’t tell her that of course, because, well, he was no fool. She was the first officer and he’d only been promoted to junior grade lieutenant a year ago.

“Surprised to see you still here, Mr. Spock, after all the trouble you went through to get away for a few days.”

“I requested two days leave, Commander, not ‘a few.’”

Looked like the pedantry stick was extra-far up his ass this afternoon.

“Well one of those days is today if I’m not mistaken.” She reached for a shaker of hot pepper blend – a Vulcan brand she found delightfully fiery – and showered her fries with it. “Change in plans?”

“An unforeseen lack of them. Sir.”

He listlessly pushed a spoon into the remnants of something resembling grainy chocolate mousse. The slope of the bowl’s interior was stained with the hot pepper condiment. Chocolate and chili – an excellent combination in her book. It seemed to be doing nothing for Spock. The sigh that came out of him surprised them both.

“Might I have my leave rescinded, Commander?”

“Why? We’re already scrambling to find things for the scheduled people to do. Lots of redundant maintenance going on around here.”

“That would be acceptable.”

She quickly swallowed the fry she’d been talking around, feeling the power of about 800,000 scoville units follow it down. A swig of beer and then, “Spock. No.”

“Sir?”

“No. You’re not going to waste time and brain matter on scut work for two days. I have no idea why you of all people requested shore leave at a place that’s mostly maintenance hubs, bars, and brothels, but you had to put up with a lot of crap to get it, so go use it.”

“But the reason for the request is no longer applicable. What would I do in a bar or a brothel?” The moment it left his mouth he wanted them both to pretend he it hadn’t said it. 

“I wasn’t suggesting either. Look. You’ve got the free time. Why not take the opportunity to do something you _want_ to do with it? Maybe I can sweet talk the CSO into giving you a few hours in the astrophysics lab for your own research. You could finish up that paper you were going to submit— what?”

“I’ve been scooped.”

“Oh. Well. That truly sucks. Who was it?” She stabs a piece of lettuce with a fork. “Tamsin Blishwara? Dr. Gerkand?”

“Neither. I would prefer not to dwell on it.”

“All right. How about—”

“ _Commander._ Please. Revoke my leave. Redundant maintenance work would be a welcome respite."

“I don’t want you moping around the ship for two days!”

“Then I will remain in my quarters until I can return to duty.”

No point arguing that Vulcans don’t mope when proposing moping in one’s quarters instead.

“Oh, for the love of— Spock, beam down for shore leave right now. Go watch your idiot crewmates perform drunken karaoke. That’s an order.” She lowered her head like a bull over her lunch and waved off whatever he was about to say with a sharp gesture. “I don’t want to see you on this ship again before 2200 tomorrow. Now get.”

^^^

The first bar off the transporter station was called _The Last Call_ – as unsurprising a name as it was uninspired. Although some people probably enjoyed their intoxicants at this bar when they first disembarked, they were more likely to indulge in “one for the road” on their way back to their ships. As shore leave was only a few hours underway, none of his crewmates were within. He almost hadn’t bothered to check.

As he walked past various establishments (not all of them drinking establishments), he wondered how loosely he could interpret the commander’s orders. Must he watch crewmates perform karaoke to adhere, or simply engage in some form of social interaction with them for an allotted time? Did they have to be intoxicated for it to count? 

He’d debated the legitimacy of the orders. Not out loud. Not to her face. That would have been … unwise. He could have taken it to the captain, but he’d discovered long ago (through observation rather than experience, thankfully) that these were the sort of disputes Captain Pike considered frivolous and in the category of “tattling like a six year old” which would inevitably call into question how the complainant managed to become a commissioned officer in the first place. He also suspected the Captain would consider Number One’s order to be in Spock’s best interests and “good for him.” It was therefore prudent to follow such orders until they were technically fulfilled. He simply had to locate any one of his crewmates performing karaoke, watch them do it for the duration of one song, then leave.

But that presented the problem of what to do after. If he were prohibited from returning to the Enterprise before tomorrow at 2200, how would he occupy himself? He had not booked accommodations on the starbase itself, intending to return to his quarters each evening after spending the day with T’Pring. Whatever accommodations could be had at this late date would be prohibitively expensive or … unsavory.

He tamped down his irritation. There was no benefit to be had from dwelling on present circumstances. Quickly reciting the first doctrine of logic, he squared his shoulders, and took a cleansing breath (somewhat impeded by the smells coming off the food court), before embarking on a search for karaoke venues in the base’s entertainment hub.


	2. Noc Noc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hijinks proceed to ensue accordingly.

Ensign Ramot stood on the small stage of the bar at the Noc Noc Inn undulating his gut in a t-shirt that read “ ** _Every triangle is a love triangle if you love triangles”_** (with a false attribution to Pythagoras). He sang into an overly large, archaic (and purely symbolic) microphone.

“You’re killing it, Moshe,” someone shouted as he cheerfully slaughtered the Andorian language with his rendition of The Spankers pop hit “ _Gig Raal eeh Phith_.”

That Spock knew the name of the band let alone the song was something he would admit to no one. His eidetic memory was, on occasions like this, irksome.

Upon locating this bar, he’d been oddly relieved to find several of his associates from the science division within. At least he had a working relationship with the idiot crewmates performing drunken karaoke – Lt. Donovan and Ensign Lim from the astrophysics lab, Ensign Tooey and Ensign Ramot from xenomaterials and biochem, and Lt. Morales from geochem. He had worked on projects with all of them, rotating between labs, and more recently, acting as an intermediary information “runner” for the CSO’s office, distilling complex concepts into actionable insights for bridge command (a new skill but quite a satisfactory one).

After his crewmates’ initial surprise at seeing him not only base-side but in an actual bar, they indicated that he should join them at their table. Although many were in civilian clothing, he was gratified not to be the only one in uniform.

Morales scooted her chair to the side while Donovan dragged a chair over from another group’s table. Spock imagined that person would be displeased to discover it missing when they returned from wherever they had gone. Donovan caught his look, grinned, and shrugged. “You snooze you lose.” He gestured to the seat of the chair. Spock sat.

Beverage glasses of varying shapes disordered the surface of the table, empty or partially empty, sweating condensation, with half-melted ice chips and wedges of fruit gone limp. Abandoned straws in bright colors were scattered between, along with crumbled napkins, damp coasters, olive spears and cherry stems. The complimentary bowl of gevre nuts appeared to be untouched however, their sodium ladened purple shells pristine.

In the center of the table, the screen of a squat menu kiosk scrolled a list of options and house specialties interspersed with holo-links for the Noc Noc Inn’s accommodations and amenities. Advertisements for entertainment, companionship, restaurants, salvage and recycled parts, repair services, immersive holovids, and a community theater production of _Treacherous Epistolary Mediator_ cycled between.

“Your presence is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Spock,” Morales said. He detected nothing in her vocal inflection or facial expression that countered her stated sentiment. The others merely acknowledged him with nods, fluttering finger waves or (somewhat disquieting) smiles before ignoring him.

Ramot ended his performance to loud claps, hoots, cheers, and shrill whistles, and made his way back to the table. The next person up was third mate on a merchant cruiser, so the Enterprise crew turned their attention to each other.

Lt. Donovan set a drink in front of him.

“What is this?”

“Chocolate stout. My treat.”

“It is a myth that chocolate is an intoxicant for Vulcans.” He would have to ingest at least 5 kilograms of processed chocolate in one sitting for it to have even a minor effect.

“Yeah. Kind of figured. Unless you’re in the habit of getting drunk at meal-breaks.” Before Spock could ask for clarification Donovan offered, “I’ve seen you eating a chocolate custard kind of thing on breaks sometimes. I figured maybe you liked the taste.”

That was disconcerting. His occasional indulgence had been noted by others.

What Lt. Donovan had seen was a dish Spock’s mother had concocted when he was a small child to provide additional nutrients, calories, and protein in a Vulcan diet insufficient to his unique biology – nectar-sweetened chocolate aerated with nut-butter and bean-curd. As he matured his metabolism adjusted (just as the Vulcan healers assured her it would), and by the time he was an adult he monitored and modified his dietary requirements without much conscious thought. When he began serving aboard the Enterprise, the galley chief asked for a list of Vulcan foods to program into the synthesizers. In an inexplicable surge of nostalgia, he’d slipped his mother’s recipe onto the list. He’d been eating it when Number One found him in the mess hall. She likely would never have known he was still on the ship if he’d resisted that intemperate impulse.

He stared at the dark chocolate foamy-headed beverage on the table before him.

“It’s just beer, man. You can’t get drunk on that either, right?”

“I cannot. Beer is nutritious though.”

“Uh, sure. Drink up.”

Ensign Tooey and Ensign Lim watched him as if they’d never seen a large-brained biped with opposable thumbs drink a beverage before.

“Your attention is exciting suspicion,” he said, setting the glass down and peering into the diminished liquid with concern.

“It’s just, well…” Lim began.

“You’ve never been, you know…” Tooey continued carefully.

“…exactly…”

“…sociable...”

“With us.”

“Before.”

That was untrue. He’d made concerted efforts (as suggested by Number One) to engage each of them in requisite cursory conversation both prior to and after their shifts together, resulting in an 18% improvement in their cooperative work efficiency. 

He also played regular games of chess with bridge auxiliary crew, Lt. Harmon and Ensign Silloi (though only Harmon posed any sort of challenge) and had been in the audience (in the back, close to the door) at two of the three amateur musical performances in the recreation room over the past year. He’d recently engaged in a lively discussion over tea regarding the expanding slang lexicography of the universal translator with Lt. Commander Yamanaka and Lt. Shallal (though admittedly he had failed to understand many of the underlying concepts in slang terminologies as slang was inherently illogical). 

And, _also_ , was he not _here, now_ , watching drunken crewmates perform karaoke _from this very table?_ He’d been ordered to do it but surely this counted as social engagement.

Still, the emphasis placed on the word “sociable” implied a different quality in his behavior to that of his previous socializing experiences.

He started to request clarification when Morales leaned in close and asked, “So is your friend going to meet you here?”

Perhaps it was the noise assaulting his senses, or the exoticism of the environment that contributed to his momentary incomprehension. He could not recall mentioning a friend to anyone.

“Weren’t you taking leave to spend time with a friend?”

Oh.

Apparently, despite his best efforts, despite his careful avoidance, obfuscation, and deflection for the past few weeks, his reasons for requesting leave had been speculated into a semblance of the truth through the gossip chain. Number One had warned him that private business on a ship was never entirely private. “A weirdly incestuous environment, the Enterprise – figuratively, Spock, _figuratively_.”

He blinked at Morales just once, then composed his features into complete neutrality while a strange sensation (panic?) quickened his heartrate and tingled in his extremities. The attention of everyone at the table was fixed on him now, uncomfortably focused on what he did not wish known.

“Dude,” Ensign Ramot intoned with solemnity. “Were you stood up?”

From their expressions of sympathy, he extrapolated the meaning of the phrase without asking for a definition.

He drained his glass and placed it carefully on the table before him. “I am under orders to watch karaoke. I am not permitted to return to the ship until 2200 hours tomorrow.”

He was uncertain how to interpret their reactions to this. Did they think he was being humorous?

“How come nobody ever gives us orders like that?” Ensign Ramot groused.

Donovan leaned back in his chair _, really_ leaned back, on the two hindmost legs. “I think those orders mean the next round’s on you.”

***

Donovan informed him that wearing the uniform on shore leave was the best way to get laid. Spock suppressed a twinge of annoyance when Lucy Lim helpfully tried to explain “get laid.”

“I am familiar with the term. If sexual intercourse with a stranger is the primary goal, why not engage one of the many professional sex workers on the station? As a regulated industry you would be assured the person is free of disease and using appropriate contraceptives. In fact, they are required by law to provide prophylactic protection. Also, I assume some level of skill would be guaranteed.” 

Donovan’s two-legged balance on his chair was increasingly perilous. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“I assure you I would not know.”

“It’s mostly about expense,” Ensign Tooey said, catching the eye of a Zahne woman at the bar. She twirled a strand of white-blonde hair around a finger and formed odd shapes with her lips.

Tooey was clearly on the other side of her relationship’s “ultimate demise” as she’d opted for civilian clothing – a very short, bright pink dress and shoes with the kind of heels that promoted greater pelvic rotation, increased vertical motion at the hip, shorter strides and higher number of steps per minute. She had a name for the type of shoe, the concept of which kept returning to the visualization areas of Spock’s occipital lobe with distressing regularity. He could not blame the beer as others might (though currently he was on his third).

“Cost prohibitive for sure. That’s, like, a 2nd lieutenant’s paygrade at least,” Donovan said.

“You are asserting that transactional sex is more expensive than what you have already spent on food, beverages, and entertainment in the past four hours. It is not.”

The front legs of Donovan’s chair hit the floor with a thud. “And just how would you know the cost of a sex worker on Starbase 6, Spock?”

Spock wondered how Donovan did not. Lucy Lim spun the chunky little menu kiosk so Donovan could see the screen. 31% of the holo-vert links were for sex workers.

But Donovan was undaunted by facts. “Whatever. It’s all about the courtship for me—” Morales snorted and made a dismissive shooing gesture at him. He swatted her hands away. “ _And_ if you’re in uniform they know you’ll be shipping out soon so it’s gonna be short and sweet—”

All three women chuckled. “Aw. How short is it, sweetie?” Morales asked.

Lim squinted, holding her index fingers a scant 2.5 inches apart.

“Shut up. Anyway, I’m following a time-honored tradition for Terran seafarers in ports of call since the Phoenicians.”

“I believe transactional sex is the most time-honored tradition of all.” Both Morales and Lim laughed hard at that. Which was … satisfying.

Ensign Tooey had checked out of the conversation altogether by then and with a sudden, “See ya!” she was up and out the door with the Zahne woman.

Spock noticed several persons sitting at the bar were continually glancing over.

“Do you think they are waiting for our group to vacate the table?”

Morales got to her feet and stretched her arms over her head. “They’re waiting for _some_ of us to vacate the table.”

“Oh!” Lim cried. “My song’s up!” She scrambled out of her chair, pushing her way to the stage.

“I’m going to stretch my legs,” Morales said and ambled toward the exit.

Ramot spotted some non-commissioned officers he apparently knew in Engineering and made his way over to them.

Donovan turned in his chair to talk to the woman whose chair he’d stolen.

It was now 2150. Spock had twenty-three and half hours yet to fill and no idea how to fill them. He wondered if he could find a quiet place to meditate, although the noise that had assaulted his senses earlier was now merely a steady thrum so perhaps absolute quiet was not necessary.

He _should_ meditate. He did not _want_ to meditate.

Sudden advection currents in the air to his left alerted him to company. A bronze-skinned human woman with ruby colored lips slipped into the chair Lt. Morales left. She pushed a full pint of the chocolate stout carefully along the tabletop with two fingers until it was in front of him. He stared at the dense head of foam for a moment, listening to the nucleated bubbles slowly collapse. He did not want this beer. He started to push it back towards her when another woman took up residence on his right in the chair Ensign Tooey had abandoned. She was pale with hair like a cloud of blue candy-floss around her head. Her sharp chin perched in hand she smiled and gazed at him speculatively. Across from him a young man whose hair and similar gaze marked him as either her sibling or an acolyte now occupied Ensign Ramot’s empty seat.

“We thought they’d never leave,” the young man said.

***

The food court vendors were just starting to busy-up again after the dinner rush. By 0200 this section would be packed, especially with so many ships in dock. The Noodle Hut was always busy though, no matter what station or planet it was on. Emma Morales was still waiting for her Vulcan shi’yon-style udon when she spotted Lt. Donovan and Ensign Lim across the food court.

By ship’s time it was just a little after midnight, so she was surprised to see they’d stopped drinking so early. She was even more surprised to see Spock with them. She waved and shouted, caught their eye. They wove their way through an obstacle course of milling bodies, haphazardly placed chairs, and yet-to-be-bussed tables. The closer they got, the more she noticed their bedraggled states.

“ _Dios mio_. What happened to you guys?”

Ensign Lim, limping slightly, ponytail askew, aimed a thumb in Spock’s direction. “This one got us kicked out of the bar.”

“Wait. _What?_ ” Morales sputtered. If she’d been a Lemth her eyes would have bugged out of their sockets on stalks.

“Yup,” Lt. Donovan said. His smile was thin, and he looked super irritated. The front of his shirt was stained with something that looked sticky and there were bits of … something embedded in the knees of his trousers.

Lt. Spock, somewhat less bedraggled than the other two nevertheless sported an extra greenish tinge to his cheeks that Morales interpreted as embarrassment or humiliation or mortification or all-of-the-above. “You can’t even get drunk!” she exclaimed at him.

“No, but he sure can talk shit.” Donovan said, plunking down in a chair,

“I did not talk ‘shit.’” Spock pulled another chair out from the table with more force than intended. The screech echoed loud enough to pause chatter. He sat sedately, explaining in a perfectly reasonable voice, “I talked _science_ – social science – specifically, the ‘sexually salient’ hypothesis regarding the heterosexual human male’s preference for the color red.”

“Spock! You used the words ‘lipstick’ and ‘labia’ in the same sentence,” Lim exclaimed.

Donovan jabbed a finger towards Spock's solar plexus. “You were blabbing on and on about red lipstick and human lady parts! To a human lady!"

“’Lady’ is kinda stretching it,” Lim muttered under her breath.

Morales who’d been holding her lips together with her fingers, gave up trying to reign in her explosive mirth. “For the love of Surak, why? Why would you say such a thing?”

If Spock took umbrage at her hilarious insertion of the father of Vulcan philosophy into an expression appealing to a Terran god, he kept it to himself. In fact, he stared stubbornly at the tabletop with his arms crossed over his chest.

Lt. Lim leaned close to Morales and whispered loudly, “She was _coming on_ to him.”

“God, I hope that wasn’t him trying to flirt back!”

“ _No_.” Spock seemed to realize crossing his arms over his chest made him appear petulant. He carefully placed his hands on his lap. “I was endeavoring to explain why her efforts to engage me sexually were unlikely to succeed.” His vocal inflection was flat and even, but he didn’t quite meet her eyes when he spoke.

Morales cocked a brow at him, “Just _unlikely?_ ”

“I thought it best to allow for a margin of error to account for … matroclinous inheritance. Though my genotype is obviously Vulcan. Based on the sexual salient hypothesis I explained to her that I would, in theory, be more likely to respond to green-hued lipstick than red.”

A strange scandalized chortle came out of Morales's mouth.

Lucy Lim leaned her head back but the view of faux flying buttresses seemed not to please her. She groaned and a second later she was laughing so hard she could barely get words out. “You should have seen it, Emma, oh my god. All these people quick-timing it out of the bar—"

Donovan was not laughing. “And most of them back ten minutes later sporting green lipstick. It was chaos.”

Spock looked like he was trying to meditate himself out of existence.

“You got kicked out of the bar for that?”

“Uh. Well. There may have been some punches thrown.”

“The woman’s boyfriend.”

“Husband. Mountain of a guy – Tiburonian?”

“Yes,” Spock said. His eyes flicked to Morales then away. “I _did_ endeavor to de-escalate the situation.”

“He did some Vulcan martial arts thingy.”

“ _Kheile’a_. A form to repel harm, not inflict.”

“And yet the mountain fell.”

“Guy went down _hard._ ”

“And hence we are here.”

“Sorry I missed it.”

Spock, impossibly, managed to sit even straighter. “It was shameful behavior on my part. Should we be subject to discipline I will, of course, assume full responsibility.”

“ _Mijo_ , relax. Very unlikely. Even if it does, the worst that would happen is a little mark in our military records.”

Weird that the first emotions she’d ever seen Spock genuinely exhibit were horror and dismay.

“Oh my god,” Lim said.

“What? Is it MPs? Crap!”

“No. Oh. My. God.” She punctuated each word with an elbow jabbed into Donovan’s biceps. His eyes followed the jut of her chin to the fluffy blue-haired couple standing near the mezzanine’s railing. Obviously looking for something or _someone._ A sudden predatory gleefulness indicated they’d located what they sought.

“Are they stalking him? Seriously?”

“Wait? What’s this now? What’s happening?”

“Lovai hunting pair on the prowl.” Lovai was more of a lifestyle choice than a species.

Morales glanced at Spock. “They really set their sights high, don’t they?”

“Let’s get out of here.” Lim looked around for exits.

“I haven’t got my noodles yet!” Morales protested.

“I am capable of handling this myself,” Spock said, alarmed by the two sets of hands trying to lift him out of his seat.

Donovan grunted at the sheer physical density of a Vulcan who didn’t want to get out of a chair. “Yeah, but I don’t wanna have to talk to them, so come on.” He let go in frustration and put his hands on his hips. “Look. You owe us for getting us thrown out of Noc Noc.”

Lim tugged on Spock’s arm. “It’s not just you. We’re saving all of us from a toxic dose of synthetic pheromones.”

She pointed at the multi-symbol signs and a broad archway that led to the waste elimination facilities. “There’s probably a service access door back there we can use.”

Spock appeared to relax, surrendering to the absurd perhaps and the three of them made haste for the facilities just as a servo rolled up with Morales’s noodle order. She hit the take-away option, grabbed the handles of the bag, four sets of chopsticks and a fistful of napkins and took off after them.


	3. Human Bonding Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human bonding experiences are weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't finish in three chapters. There must be a fourth.

Having escaped the Lovai couple, the four crewmates were now sat on the floor in an empty access corridor sharing Morales’s bowl of udon between them. It was some sort of human bonding experience Spock assumed, participation in which appeared obligatory due to him getting them thrown out of Noc Noc.

Despite the chill of the floor seeping through the seat of his pants, it was hardly the most uncomfortable human bonding experience he’d ever endured. At the Academy, cadets were often compelled to participate in manufactured bonding experiences for the purposes of “team-building.” At least this human bonding experience did not involve excessive physical contact or, worse, trust exercises.

Lt. Morales had offered him the first bite of her noodles so that he could avoid exposure to human salivary bacteria, which, though thoughtful, was not strictly necessary. A convenient misapprehension. Technically, as Morales was not serving noodles _to_ him but allowing him to serve _himself,_ he neatly sidestepped certain antiquated cultural prohibitions that forbade him accepting food or drink from a woman not related by blood or marriage.

He took a share from the bowl, carefully twirling the noodles around his chopsticks and holding the small mass over the napkin in his other hand. Morales was less dainty, pulling the noodles out in a clump and immediately tipping her head back to let the dripping strands slide into her open mouth. She passed the bowl to Lim who copied the action before passing it to Donovan. 

A few minutes of noisy human appreciation for Vulcan shi-yon style udon followed.

“So, what makes this Vulcan-style, anyway?” Lim poked her chopsticks into the bowl of diminishing solids.

“These little crunchy bits,” Morales said, snatching up another curl of cir-cen wef. “From a kind of cactus. I think?” She looked to Spock for confirmation.

“Correct. The flesh is shaved away from the cladodes in thin wafers and then fried in pepper oil. But shi-yon actually refers to the method of cooking in pepper oil.” A somewhat more complex cuisine but enough of an explanation for the moment.

“Freaking delicious,” Morales said, popping the morsel into her mouth. She closed her eyes in brief appreciation.

Donovan looked sorrowfully at the cir-cen wef. “I’m not as cool with the non-terran cuisines I guess.” He darted a glance at Spock. “No offense.”

“None taken. However, humans have eaten cactus for millennia.”

“Not this human.” The lieutenant set his chopsticks on a napkin on the floor, belched without reservation or apology then leaned back on his elbows to stretch his legs. He gave Lim a crooked grin. “Okay. Spill. How the hell did you hack the security access panel to that door so fast?” 

Lim choked down a mouthful with a noisy gulp. “Security access! That’s hilarious. Come on Dre, you know me better than that.”

Spock would never understand the broad range and variety of subjects that humans found hilarious, but it had seemed to him from observation there was little “hacking” required of her. She’d tried two codes and the second one worked. He therefore surmised that she already knew what possible codes should be entered. He also surmised that security in this part of the station was woefully lacking if it only warranted electro-magnetic doors with seven-digit numeric key codes. She confirmed his supposition.

“No hacking involved. My dad is operations shift supervisor for the maintenance crews on Starbase 4. I pretty much grew up there. They cycle through the same key-codes for non-critical areas on _all_ the old Starbases.” She gestured broadly around them at the light gray walls, the charging cubbies for servo and sanibots, the food vendors’ storage units, and the worn anti-skid treads on the floor. “I mean, there isn’t much in the way of critical systems behind the public toilets off the food courts.”

(They were actually 27.288 meters away from the public toilets. No compulsory human bonding experience could have impelled Spock to sit there and eat otherwise.)

He wound more of the udon around his chopsticks and considered: If a person or group were intent on wreaking havoc on a Starbase, easy access to these non-critical areas _could_ enable said person or group to target more secure areas. He chewed thoughtfully, looking forward to studying the base’s schematics for security gaps as he appreciated the thick noodles giving way between his teeth, the depth of flavor in the dashi that clung to them and the crunch of the cir-cen wef.

It took a moment to register the ensuing hush, and a moment after that to realize it was because his crewmates had stopped chewing and talking to look at _him_ instead.

He’d just helped himself to more of Morales noodles without a second thought. Or even a first. He had not intended to partake of any more than that symbolic first bite and could not account for his unconscionable behavior or determine how to amend it. Apologies were warranted. But the lieutenant dismissed his overtures with a wave of her chopsticks.

“No worries, chacho.” She popped another sliver of the crispy cir-cen wef into her mouth. “You’re welcome to help yourself, long as you’re okay with our germs swimming around in the dashi.”

“I cannot be significantly harmed by human ‘germs.’”

“Are you suddenly immune to the vast panoply of our bacteria?”

“Even humans are not immune to the vast panoply of their bacteria.”

“Yeah, but… you know. _You._ Being you and all.”

“My mother is human.” Their stupefied expressions puzzled him. “I thought this was generally known.”

Morales pondered this for a second. “Ah. _Matroclinous inheritance._ I get it now.”

“Well, I don’t.” Lim said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“My mother _is_ human,” Spock said, his tone sharper than it should have been. “It is fact.”

“Sorry. Sure. Of course. Right. Genetics, not my field. But-” She catches his eye briefly then looks away, “…your phenotype is clearly Vulcan. I’m assuming a lot of your genotype as well. No one who looks at you would ever assume you have a human mother. So, whatever you inherited from your mother is not physically obvious. As would be implied by use of the term.”

“It is possible,” he ventured, “that my repeated use of the term is an effort to reclaim it from its original intended insult.”

“Must be a very Vulcan kind of insult.”

“Astute.”

“And this is because humans are so… stupid?” Donovan asked carefully.

“Emotional?” Morales suggested.

“Slutty?” Lim offered.

Spock recalled his recent discussion of slang with Lt. Commander Yamanaka and Lt. Shallal for definition of “slutty” before confirming, “Yes.”

Donovan snapped his fingers, then pointed at him. “It’s the Vulcan version of ‘yo mama!’”

His glee at the idea was not shared by Morales and Lim, who immediately tried to discourage any further exploration of this.

The slang lexicon was of no help in this case. Spock did not understand and said so.

Morales made a face. “It’s a form of adolescent verbal sparring still practiced in some of the more socially backward human colonies -”

“Hey!” Donovan was from one-such backward human colony. “It’s not backward. It’s the dozens!” He turned to Spock, explaining, "The dozens is yet another time-honored tradition, one practiced by my ancestors for centuries.”

“Mostly they just insult each other’s moms,” Lim said.

“Creatively.”

Spock requested an example.

Morales sighed. “Yo mama so fat she got her own inertial dampeners.”

“Yo mama so fat she need warp drive just to turn around,” was Donovan’s retort.

“My mother is not fat,” Spock said.

“It’s not about the truth, man. It’s about how outrageous the signifying. It’s kind of like a Tellarite Wife-Insult Battle except the only thing that dies is your opponent’s ego. Like, uh, let’s see. Oh, oh, I got it! Yo mama so _human_ she thinks Surak is where Vulcans hang their surs.’”

“What are surs?”

“I don’t know – but neither does _yo mama_!”

The two women groaned.

“Okay. How about... yo mama so human even _emotions_ run when they see her coming.”

Morales cracked the tiniest smile. “All right. I’ll give you that one.”

The gleam in his eye did not bode well for the next one, however and he rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain.

“Here goes. Spock, yo mama so human she thinks fallacious reasoning is a Vulcan blow j—” 

“NOOOO!!!”

Donovan was thrown back, his head just missing the floor and all the air knocked out him. Lim straddled his prone body, clapping her hands over his mouth as he tried to suck in air. “No, _nope_ ,” she grunted as he flailed beneath her, “you’re not finishing that sentence, Dre!”

Finally, a gasp. Then another. His muffled curses started to escape between her fingers as he batted and pulled at her hands. Bucking furiously, he tried to dislodge her, but a wild kick sent the bowl of udon flying instead.

Spock and Morales leapt back from the spray of liquid. Most of the solids were gone but soup spattered the far wall and spread a growing puddle across the floor.

“Donovan! Que diablos, dude!” Morales was frantically throwing napkins at the puddle. They could hear the tell-tale whir of a sanibot activating into service, detaching from its charger. 

“What the _actual_ fuck, Ensign?” Donovan said, struggling to recover his dignity. 

“Oh, are you going to pull rank now?” Lucy Lim was the only ensign present. She got to her feet, panting, trying to hold together the staticky wisps of her hair in one hand as her glances roamed the floor searching for the elastic band that was _supposed_ to be holding it. Her concern seemed misplaced. The band was under one of the napkins currently soaking up the dashi. Spock wondered if he should mention it.

“You can’t say that kind of stuff about his mother,” Morales said. She thrust an arm out, pointing at Spock without looking his direction as she pushed disintegrating napkins around with toe of her shoe.

“It’s not about his mother! It’s about yo mama!”

“Do you _really_ want to have to explain that joke to him? Look at that face.”

“Fallacious. Fellatio. Potato. Potahto.”

“Shut it!” Lim said. She flicked a glance sideways at their Vulcan crewmate and dropped her voice. “You’ll crush his soul.”

“He’s mostly Vulcan!”

“With a soft human center!”

“Could all of you cease referring to me as if I were not present—”

“ _Hellooo._ ”

They all froze.

“Oh god, it’s them,” Donovan hissed.

The Lovai.

“ _Where are yoooouuu?”_

“How did they get back here?”

“Perhaps one of their parents is also an operations shift supervisor for the maintenance crews on a Starbase,” Spock said.

Ensign Lim glared at him, “Ha ha.” Most humans had little difficulty discerning when he was being sarcastic but rarely trusted their instincts because it came out of his Vulcan mouth. Ensign Lim did not have that problem.

“ _Pi’petakov dah'wak. Mavau k' etek_.” 

“What language…? Is that Vulcan? Are they stalking you in Vulcan now?”

“Apparently.” He cocked his head. “I am… two-times little cute?” The Lovai’s annoying singsong delivery made their terrible syntax even more unpleasant. “They want to play with me.”

“Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

“ _Du dungi zahvan rom._ ” 

“And I will taste delicious.” 

“Shitshitshit. Okay…” Lim, hands on her hips, cast her gaze in both directions before settling on the corridor’s gentle curve to the left – the opposite direction from the strange, leisurely approach of the Lovai who had yet to come into view.

A sanibot sailed over and sank down over the puddle of soup like a bulky nesting fowl. Morales scrambled to retrieve the overturned bowl. “What are you doing?” Lim growled. “Just leave it to the bot. We need to move. Come on. Nownownow." They scrambled after her. "I’m pretty sure there’s a door to a service shaft not too far ahead.”

There was and eight minutes later they emerged onto an upper-level business office area with a scattering of shops.

As soon as Lim finished rolling the access panel back into place and scrambling the code from the outside, she and Morales descended upon Spock like nannies whose tiny charge had fallen from a climbing structure. They circled his person, pushing and turning and spinning him about while simultaneously patting him all over.

“The tag’s got to be here somewhere,” Morales muttered anxiously. She pulled his sleeves up, checking his wrists before running her hands over his arms, shoulders and back.

“That’s how they found us? Those bastards,” Donovan said mildly, standing well away from the frenetic activity of the two women.

A scowl had burrowed between Spock’s brows and he decided to leave it there. He reached behind and slapped at Morales’s hands. “Tag? As in a tracking device?”

“Kind of,” Ensign Lim said, kneeling on the floor and ruching up his pant legs. “They call it the Eye of Lovai. More like the _spit_ of Lovai. It’s uh, it’s a biochemical marker.” He shook her off like a tenacious canine. Undaunted, she rose, and started pushing up the hems of his tunic and undershirt. He held his arms away from his body in quiet exasperation. The bare skin she exposed prickled with gooseflesh.

Suddenly, her cheeks flushed. She looked up, away, to the side, _anywhere_ but at him. “Hoo boy,” she gulped, licking her lips. “Sure wish Moshe was here. He’d know what to look for.”

He dropped his arms. “If you did not know what to look for, why—”

“ _Spock?”_

He turned, dreading the source of that distinctive pronunciation of his name.

T’Pring’s uncle Stuket and his wife T’Rida were standing just outside the door of an all-hours apothecary - which he should have anticipated given how his evening had proceeded thus far.

“We _had not expected to see you here,_ ” T’Rida said, casting a desultory gaze at his associates. “ _Our niece informed us she had cancelled.”_

“ _She did_ ,” Spock replied, gathering his dignity. “ _I decided I would not.”_

Stuket’s mouth tightened and he drew himself up as if Spock’s presence on the station without his niece was some sort of affront to her honor. T’Rida, done with her inspection of his companions, now turned her attention to his midriff where the hems of his tunic and undershirt rucked up unevenly. He started to tug the shirts down over his bared skin, but then (for reasons he did not fully understand and did not want scrutinized) he clasped his hands behind his back, offering her an unobstructed view of his dishevelment.

His crewmates had retreated a short distance, watching the exchange with awkward shuffling of feet and throat clearing. Spock switched from vuhlkansu to fedstandard. “If you will excuse me,” he told the Vulcan couple, “I am currently being pursued by a Lovai hunting pair and my crewmates are assisting in my escape. Perhaps if I am successful, we might meet for tea sometime before my ship departs in fifty-three hours.”

He turned from their blinking astonishment and marched off. Three seconds later his crewmates followed. Only then did he straighten his undershirt and tunic.

***

They find Ensign Ramot at a café sitting with two of his friends from engineering. Morales is relieved when he easily locates the Lovai tag behind Spock’s left ear.

“The entactogenic properties in their saliva probably wouldn’t have affected you much even if they managed to catch you,” Ramot says, “but just to be safe…” He makes Spock expectorate into a cloth napkin and then rubs the mark away with it. Something about enzymes and biochemical signatures. Morales tunes out on the words and watches how her Vulcan crewmate reacts to the attention by carefully trying _not_ to react.

From his manner Morales guesses 1.) this spit cleanse was something his mother did (maybe only once) when he was a child and he’s never quite forgiven her for it, and 2.) he’s been the guileless victim of too many pranks and is starting to suspect this Lovai thing might be another one. But when Lim asks worriedly, “Should we report them to the MPs?” he relaxes.

“I don’t want to call attention to myself after being kicked out of a bar for brawling, do you?” Donovan’s only half been paying attention until that moment, too busy checking out the local ladies. There were more people out and about than Morales would have reckoned.

“Is that what happened? I went back to Noc Noc and you guys were already gone,” Ramot says. “Guess I missed all the excitement.”

“It’s a good story.” Apparently, Donovan had mellowed since it happened. More than mellowed since he’s willing to tell it.

A retelling is inevitable. The story is destined to be passed around the ship for months to come. Still, Spock gives his head a tiny little shake and says plaintively in a low voice, “Perhaps…” Perhaps they could forget it ever happened? Perhaps they could wait until he was not present? Perhaps they could attribute his mistakes to an anonymous someone else?

Donovan has already launched the tale.

After everyone not Spock has laughed themselves ragged, Lim returns to her original concern. “We should report the Lovai to Operations at least. They’re a freaking menace.”

“They’re just looking for love,” Ramot says.

“In _all_ the wrong places.” Donovan wags his eyebrows at Spock and Morales can’t help but grin around the neon green Galaxy ice-pop in her mouth. Spock is looking very serious and she pulls the psychoactive treat out and offers it to him again.

“I am not _sucking_ or _licking_ any comestible the chief ingredient of which is listed merely as ‘colors.’”

“I did try to discourage you from reading the ingredients.”

“Not reading the ingredients would have been illogical and potentially dangerous. Especially when the second ingredient is phytocannabinoids.”

“So? You can’t be affected anyway.” He’s half human. “Or _can_ you?”

“I have no intention of finding out.”

“You’re getting grumpy. Do you need la siesta, mijo?“

“As I have yet to locate lodging both suitable and affordable, any restorative rest will be in short supply for the next eighteen hours and twelve minutes.”

She instantly feels two things at once – proprietorial and guilty. She has a whole room to herself, which she booked very specifically so that she _could_ have it to herself. At least two glorious nights of not sharing space with Petranella Brix. Not having to sleep with ear plugs because of snoring, ignoring farts (including her own), pretending she doesn’t know why Pet is taking so long in the bathroom, really wanting to put the vibrator she got on Risa to good use without having to coordinate schedules, listening to music she likes really loud without earbuds, or watching horror holovids without Petranella grabbing handfuls of her popcorn and loudly wondering how she can watch this stuff?

Two freaking nights alone, that’s all she wants!

“Lucy and Moshe have a huge suite at the Carlson Alpha Centauri,” she blurts out.

Overhearing, Lim stops her. “It’s a double, and there are eight others besides me and Moshe – including Dre.”

Donovan takes this as his cue to stand and stretch. He jogs in place for a second and rolls his head, working out some kinks in his neck. “I won’t be using my portion of the floor in the foreseeable,” he says casually, aiming the words at Spock, but his gaze floats right past the Vulcan and onto a gorgeous Akaali girl in a chainmail dress. “You’re welcome to crash there if you want,” he says as he trots off to pursue his dream.

Spock looks resigned.

Ramot has his communicator open. “My friend Gogrally from Engineering says there’s a huge party happening in the hotel block.”

“Is it a block party or a party at a specific hotel in the block?”

“Either way, we’ll be able to find it by the noise.”

Lim is looking at the location tracer. “Moshe. That’s the Carlson Alpha Centauri.”

“It is?”

“That’s our room!”

“Oh fuck.”

Morales takes one look at Spock and sighs.

“I have a room at the Noc Noc Inn. If we can sneak you past the bar, you can use the other bed.”


End file.
